


Spreadin' Honey

by gloss



Category: Daughters of the Dragon/Heroes for Hire
Genre: 1970s, Character of Color, F/F, Gender Play, Kink Meme, Sort of AU, blaxploitation, dykesploitation, lesbionic, shaft - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme prompt: Misty Knight is Shaft: Who's the black private dick/That's a sex machine to all the chicks?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spreadin' Honey

It's a raw, foggy night in Bradhurst. Folks rub their hands and slap their cheeks to keep the circulation up. Chilly as it is, the street's just as lively as ever, the stoops crowded with loungers and partiers, those hoping to buy, those selling, and all their friends. Working girls stroll at the end of the block; kids rollerskate and toss jacks. Minnie Riperton coos from a car radio; cigarette smoke twines up into the fog and hovers, blue on white.

Down the block comes Misty Knight, strolling like she doesn't have a care in the world. Flared double-knit trousers in burgundy cling to her wide hips; a ribbed turtleneck jersey hugs her fine rack and strong shoulders. She's got a leather jacket on, its tails flapping behind her, and her hands are stuck, casual and cocky all at once, in her front trouser pockets. Everyone knows her; every lady loves her. Luanne and Marisol, Ruth Sweets and Angel Angie, all greet her, and she's got a smile and a wink, a touch to imaginary hat brim, for each of them.

Jasmine elbows Three-Legged Joe, with whom she's been shacking up for the last several months. "Now, _that's_ how you treat a woman," she says, pointing to where Misty has stopped to greet Lorraine DuBois, finally arriving home from second shift and her third job. Misty helps her out of the gypsy cab and pays the driver, waving off Lorraine's protests. She carries Lorraine's grocery sacks up the stoop stairs and holds the door open for her. "You see? Now that's a gentleman. Misty Knight is one of a kind."

Joe huffs and spits, but doesn't dare disagree aloud.

Misty trots back down the stairs and knocks Anibal Quintana's shoulder as she passes. He fumbles to hide the tall boy he shouldn't be drinking while still on parole.

"Forget it, Ani," Misty says, planting her foot on the first step and leaning in. "I got no badge any more, remember?"

"Hell, yeah!" Anibal grins and claps his hands. "Means I can do whatever I want, eh?"

Misty leans back, letting her coat fall open, and her hand just comes to rest, natural as anything, on her waist holster. "Way I see the situation, what it means is I don't have to worry about trifles like 'excessive force', 'cruel and unusual punishments', nor IA investigations, dig?"

Anibal drops the beer. It falls end over end, foam splashing every which way, and Misty steps neatly out of its path. "I dig."

"Good," she says and chucks him under the chin. "Keep up the angel schtick, brother, and we've got no beef."

Misty moves on down the block, hips swishing, smile shining like a lighthouse beam. In her wake, she leaves sighing, tingling ladies who dare to dream of a world where they're respected, honored, loved like the goddesses they are, and dudes who find themselves equal parts put out and envious. Do they want to be her? Want to fuck her? Maybe some brothers want to get fucked by Miss Knight, held close and brought over the edge, screaming in joy.

Anything's possible. She's got love for them all, sinner and angels alike.

Still, she's heading for one very special lady. All the way to the end of 156th and around the corner onto Macombs Place to the side exit of Barrett's Tip-Top Nite-Club, and there she is.

 _There she is._

Flimsy nylon cheongsam that barely reaches past her high, round ass, goose-pimpled pale skin on her arms and thighs, knee-high Frye boots, darker than midnight (which, after all, around here is about as dark as beef broth). She's got her cold hands tucked up in her armpits, her chin tucked against her chest. Her unearthly red hair's done up in looped braids and chignon - some racist fool's idea of Mysterious Oriental Coiffure - while her wide, tilted green eyes are wreathed in heavy kohl.

She's a long, _long_ drink of cool clear water, Miss Colleen Wing is. Or vodka - pale and disarming, with a kick to stun you back on your ass if you're not careful.

And Misty's never careful.

"Ma'am," Misty says and pulls off her coat to wrap it around Colleen's shoulders.

Colleen blows on her palms and scowls. She loathes undercover work, hates even more being the bait. " _Cold_."

Misty links their arms and tugs Colleen up against her side. Kissing the clammy hollow under Colleen's jaw, she whispers, "Looking forward to warming you up."

Colleen has already taken care of everything. Mr. Whyte, the local bigwig who's been diddling kids and distributing some poorly-cut, toxic smack, is passed out and tied up in the center of the Tip-Top's empty dance floor. Tables and chairs are overturned in all directions; one sad-faced brother is sweeping up the broken glass. Misty takes the broom from his hands and sends him home to his lady. She flicks off the overhead lights and sets the mirror ball lazily turning. Instead of the synthesized shit the club usually plays for the cracker suburbanites slumming it up here, she tunes the radio into some overnight soul.

They've got to find some way to pass the time until Whyte wakes up. Colleen may have gone to town on him, but _anyone_ who's seen the pig's private Polaroid collection would have been hard-put to hold back.

So, meanwhile, Misty sits Colleen down on a green velvet banquette and sets to showing her just how goddamn beautiful, brave, and bodacious she is. Soon enough, her mouth kiss-swollen and her own nipples aching from Colleen's exacting attention with teeth and nails, Misty slides down to her knees. Nothing better than those miles-long legs wrapped around her, her face buried in auburn hair and redder folds, tongue lapping deep for secret honey, while Colleen's deadly-strong hands yank at Misty's hair.

They've got all night, every night. It's just getting better and better.


End file.
